


Graves Expectations

by Reinette_de_la_Saintonge



Series: From Wolford's Archives [4]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Character Study, Children of Characters, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family, Family Feels, Family History, Fluff, Future Fic, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Love, Old Married Couple, Retrospective, uncharacteristically wholesome by my standards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-04 22:08:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16797997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reinette_de_la_Saintonge/pseuds/Reinette_de_la_Saintonge
Summary: 28 January 1784: when Admiral and Mrs Graves are awoken by a courier bearing exciting news from Elizabeth and John Graves Simcoe, the Admiral takes this opportunity to look to the past -and the future.Basically a one-shot spin-off of "The Colonel's Portrait" with a lot of prequel-ly and some sequel-ly moments including a trip down memory lane to Bath in the late 1760s, an offensive satirical Rev War poem, a baby being born and mild mentions of contemporary politics.





	Graves Expectations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tvsn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tvsn/gifts).



> A belated happy birthday to the wonderful tvsn! I am shamefully late due to unforseen circumstances, but here is your present- what better to write about on a birthday than a birthday? I originally wanted to do something sad, but I thought it should be something happy for this very happy occasion. I hope you (and everyone else reading this) enjoy it- I tried my best with a literary pun for a title and of course, notes, notes, notes! <3
> 
> One more thing: there are a lot of women called Elizabeth in this story. If you, against my best efforts, cannot tell them apart, I have made a little list in the end.
> 
> Oh yes, in case I didn't mention it before there also are notes galore, be warned.

“I cannot believe-“ his wife, pacing up and down the length of the drawing-room, was fuming. Knowing the reason for her anger, he saw no point in trying to calm her down. After almost fifteen years of marriage, he knew there was no point in it.

The reason why Margaret was beside herself was the note lying on the table in front of him; a few shaky, hastily-scrawled lines informing them Mrs Elizabeth Simcoe had been delivered of a healthy girl at eleven o’clock in the evening and that both mother and child were well, but quite tired.

“…and _Mrs Gwillim_ is there, how…” she went on, now mortally offended Elizabeth’s other aunt had been with her during the delivery whereas she had not been invited. For someone only recently woken from her sleep, she was very awake and vocal whereas he still needed a few moments to process the news, let the reality of the situation trickle from his ears and eyes through to his brain.

“…all these years… and being slighted so when it was I who already attended her own birth!”

Fuming, her dressing-gown wrapped tightly around her still very shapely frame (while he grew ever fatter, his wife was as handsome as she had been fifteen years ago) and her hair let down for the night, iron-grey waves spilling over her shoulders like angry sea-foam, she finally decided to settle down for the first time since having received the message sent by a courier to ensure its timely delivery.

“Margaret”, he at last tried, inching closer and taking her hand in his.

“Sam Graves”, she retorted immediately, “need I recall to you the _horrors_ -“

“Tho’ the events had long passed when I first met you, I am quite sufficiently informed about the fate of your late sister, I think.”

What agitated her so was the fact that Elizabeth, her niece, had been born and immediately lost her mother, Margaret’s sister, who had died a tragic death in childbed, having held her little daughter only once before perishing not an hour later. Margaret had been there, held the elder Elizabeth’s hand and later, the young, new-born one in her arms. It was then she had made the firm resolve she would protect her little, through the unfortunate circumstances of her birth and the perishing of her father while her mother had still been pregnant, orphaned niece always- and now considered herself to have failed.

She had not been able to persuade Elizabeth to never marry; she had, and was in fact, quite happily married, the evidence of which had entered this world on this very day.

“All’s well that Ends well”, he tries and brushes a wisp of hair from her shoulder. Oddly, despite her anger, he can feel Margaret lean into his touch; not much, but noticeable still, as if it was her body, not her conscious mind intent on remaining quite angry with Elizabeth, reacting to him.

“Is it?”, she replies, now giving in to his continued clumsy efforts to comb through her hair with his fingers that had in the past been much more accustomed to the roughness of life on the high seas than the tenderness of a lover- or a father.

“It’s quite our fault, isn’t it?”, Margaret asks in a tone that was a mixture of defeat, bitterness and oddly, some wry humouring at the present situation.

“If you look at it like that-“

“Had we not married-“

“The two would never have met”, he finishes her sentence. “What fine matchmakers we are.”

“ _You_ were. I disapproved.”

For a moment, there is the ghost of a smile on her face, and the same expression on his face, also; it is clear they are thinking about the same thing, about when they had met for the first time in Bath in 1768.

They had met at the card-table, being introduced by a friend of an acquaintance who knew someone, Bath being small and most people there considering themselves of Quality, well-connected; and so, they had first made contact while throwing aces of spades and diamonds onto the table in front of them.

He had liked her, a woman of spirit, of Sense and fashion, but at the same time, modest and not one of those eager creatures intent on preying on officers and other eligible gentlemen, which had suited him quite well, given he had only the year prior lost his first wife, who had succumbed to sickness in December, shortly before Christmas.

Bath had been an attempt to divert himself when not on his ship; the business and artificiality of the Quality, who frowned somewhat on his accent of his Irish childhood that still shewed in his speech despite years of hearing broad Devonshire when on shore at his seat in Honiton (tho’ the colourful variety of voices on the Navy ships were an altogether different matter and made a gentleman from the northern shores of Britannia’s little sister who had lived long enough in England to pick up on its tonality sound quite like an Englishman of the noblest blood), watching them, partaking in their games and fooleries, going to the theatre had aided him forgetting the emptiness of his home and the day Elizabeth was lost to the world.

She’d languished for a good few months and in the beginning, they had hoped she could be cured, but after several months of slow decline, they had both known she would not live to see another year. During that time in particular, he had been particularly sorry to go to sea, but still had gone, for it was his duty and he would not have shirked from it.

He’d been by her side as she closed her eyes for the last time and when her eternal soul was set free of the tortured body that had been supple and rosy once, he did not know whether to be sad or thankful she had been relieved of the pain she had been in.

Although they had not been very passionate in recent years, or as much in love as characters from popular plays always seem to be, having lost a True Companion on the journey through life had left a feeling of emptiness not only in his home, but in his heart as well.

They had not always been happy, nor was this possible in any marriage, but their childlessness had put a considerable strain on their marriage and turned it foul for periods of time. Neither of them had liked to speak about it, but upon receiving note from his brother John’s (heaven rest his soul) ever-increasing brood of thirteen almost yearly, and Thomas, too having two boys, he had hoped for the same blessing one day, but was not granted it. Each taking turns of openly seeking the apparent fault either in themselves or the other, they had fought, then reconciled countless of times until at more than forty, the chances Elizabeth would ever give him the son or daughter he would have hoped for was very low, and he, then more than fifty, not the youngest anymore, either. Their last years, he had noticed, had been the happiest; no more disputes and enjoyment in the mutuality of their existence at the Fort had coloured the hours they’d had together a rosy hue.

When he’d quit pacing the empty rooms of Hembury Fort House to seek for fleeting past-times and light amusement to lift his spirits in Bath after a period of mourning, he would never have thought to meet Margaret, or rather, a woman like her.

Intelligent, quite spirited and of the no-nonsensical kind, she had supp’d with him a few days later upon his invitation, where he had learned all about her and vice versa: Miss Margaret Spinckes, about forty years of age, a spinster of Northamptonshire origin, was quite opinionated and her sharp criticisms of the people around them and incredible wit paired with an intelligence some men thought impossible for any female to house in her cranium, had made a formidable impression.

He had been taken by her frankness and eloquence that so contrasted the harsh chain of command he was accustomed to and enjoyed an evening debating and disagreeing with her that was renew’d when Miss Spinckes, contrary to what was expected, asked him if he would not like to go to the theatre the coming day. On the way back, they for the first time agreed on something, namely that Garrick’s _Miss in Her Teens_ was quite foolish and dull, predictable in the extreme.

When they had laughed that night about Miss Biddy and her suitors and the silliness of it all, they had not known that one day, they would sit around a table with a _Miss in Her Teens_ (tho' then only months shy of turning twenty) of their own, whose suitor, now husband, was quite a character himself, but a good man.

 _Now Miss in Her Teens_ is _Miss in Her Teens_ no more; she is more than twenty years old, married and has just had her firstborn- how fast life goes.

He sighs and rises to pour himself a glass of sherry, offering his wife one as well. She nods and takes it, and with it the honour to propose the toast.

“To the baby. She is half my niece, half your godson, I think we can at least agree on that.”

“To the baby”, he repeats solemnly, but with a broad, victorious smile on his face. Margaret forgets that the little one is not only half her niece and half his godson, but also half his niece (albeit through marriage) and half her nephew-in-law’s.

A few days later.

The new parents have call’d to receive them, to view the latest addition in the family in person. They are both excited, very much so. Margaret takes her time to make herself presentable, as if the infant would judge her choice of gown or coiffure, which appears quite silly to him, but if it makes her happy, she shall have her time admiring her reflection in the mirror and pondering on her choice of jewellery.

At last and sufficiently accoutred they hasten to Exeter where they shall act as the first ambassadors of humankind to this little human and make their introduction.

Margaret, upon arriving, immediately charges into the room where their niece is reposing; he, not quite sure what to do, rests his weary bones on a settee, waiting for a servant or his godson to inform him about the proceedings.

-And there he is, John Graves Simcoe, holding a swaddled little bundle in his arms, looking quite pleased with himself and the world, and most of all, thoroughly enamoured with the little girl in his arms.

He is not greeted in any formal manner, as his godson, who has never quite adapted to calling him by his first name after a childhood spent addressing him by his rank, would normally do, but instead, the new father bows his head to the half-asleep little one in his arms while walking towards him, cooing:

“Now be good and introduce yourself to your great-uncle.”

Before he can do or say anything, the baby is placed in his arms and she looks at him with infant-blue eyes, somewhat puzzled by the strange old man holding her, but otherwise content.

How often had he and the first Mrs Graves hoped for this moment to come to them? It never had; and when he had married Margaret, it had been their mutual understanding that there would not be any children; she was past the age of producing them and, in order to avoid the horrific fate of her late sister, had chosen to forego the dangers of the marriage bed entirely and remain childless. By the time, having buried his hopes of fatherhood with his first wife and happy with Margaret as she is, he could never have known the present day would arrive.

At first, as Margaret and he had discovered a mutual affection, friendship for another, she had not spoken of her family much, other than her unfortunate sister and brief mentions of her parents. Never had she spoken of the child’s fortune and he had assumed it had been given to the father, who was raising the child now alone or with a new wife.

But no; as their partiality for another became more obvious and at last, he had made the choice to propose to her, she had look’d at him and bade him sit without accepting, there was a thing she had not told him about before.

Expecting to hear a fearsome tale of fiercely distasteful relatives, a ne’er-do-well-brother who had spent her dowry on gin and port or a disapproving mother, he was quite surprised when she told him to say these words again when on Saturday next, she would visit him at his lodgings and present to him the reason for her current refusal to say yes or no, giving him the chance to make up his mind then.

The coming week, she had arrived, and when his man had announced her arrival, his heart jumped. Never before had it jumped just like this; he knows the rush of fear, anger and fierceness mixing, that feeling just before battle, going through the weaknesses of his ship in his head, praying the enemy cannons will not find them and praying he and his men are spared the terminal fate of death and the shame of capture alike, but it was nothing like that and in a strange and inexplicable way even worse.

He recalls her footsteps echoing as she walked towards him, and by her side there was a little girl, five he would have thought, very tiny and pale with a very serious mien. The effect of her paleness was enhanced by her dark hair neatly done up in the fashion of an adult and the hazel eyes that sat in her face and the thin line of her mouth, lips pressed together tightly in concentration.

In appearance, she resembled Margaret in the general shape of her face, hair colour and deportment, carrying her tiny figure like a grand-dame at court, her back as straight as a mast and her pale blue dress billowing like a sail around her, which led him to assume correctly, as it would turn out an instant later, that the little miss before him was her late sister’s daughter.

A slight nudge administered to her by her aunt and not intended for his eyes prompted the girl to step forward and curtsey deeply. She was very graceful doing so; most of the supposedly accomplished young ladies he had observed in Bath that year would not have been able to be so full of grace.

“My name is Elizabeth Posthuma Gwillim and I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Admiral Graves.”

The words sounded studied, as if the little girl were a character in a play and merely quoting from a play learnt by heart, looking up to him with a cool composure that was studied as well but could not hide from her face the nervousness she was harbouring and that was making her heart beat loudly in her chest. Although he is not so tall as John is, he is quite tall indeed, his parents, friends and relations having called him “Long Sam” in his boyhood for early on, he had been as tall as Miss Gwillim was minute.

Aware of his intimidating figure, he kneeled to appear not so terrifying to her and told her he had never made the acquaintance of a more accomplished lady and that indeed it was he who was pleased to meet her.

A rosy hue coloured her cheeks then and her chest swelled with pride. It was almost as if he had forgotten about Margaret for an instant, but came to again, rose and asked her if the child was her sister’s, which she affirmed, telling him the girl was fatherless also and currently her education was chiefly seen to by herself, her own mother and two sisters-in-law still living. Elizabeth’s welfare was paramount to her and if he could not accept her into his home, she could not marry him.

He had shaken his head so violently then that his wig had almost fallen of his head. What was he to do? It would be against all Christian principles to reject an orphan (or her aunt on the count of being so good as to raise the poor child), and seeing as her education, governess, clothes and the like were either paid for by her living relatives or from her inheritance, which was considerable (but of course invested wisely in order to amass more rather than to retract permanently of it), there would be no expenses on his count other than the food and drink she consumed when staying at the Fort and which he believed to be very little, not more than a mouse could eat, given her astonishing smallness.

Trying to rationally lay out the facts before his mind’s eye, he had pushed the response of his heart far away, which was an immediate yes, for now, he was given the daughter he had never had, for as an officer, he knows the importance of ruling with the head, not his heart, but until this day, he has the strong suspicion he would have taken Elizabeth in even if it had gone against his rational decision.

Sitting with aunt and niece a while afterwards to get acquainted better, he observed the little creature over lemonade and biscuits, taking her tea with her little finger sticking out and nibbling on one biscuit for very long and when she had finished it, she rested her hands folded in her lap, sitting so very upright she was the human, female equivalent to a tin soldier. Eager to please and uncertain what to do or say, she let the adults talk and observed, trying to get to know the stranger her aunt had presented her with slowly through his ways and words and at the same time attempting to show her very best side, obedient and dignified.

“Now, won’t you have another biscuit?”, he had then asked her to break the ice between them. “They are very good, and I am certainly going to have another”, he had concluded before reaching for another tasty piece of baked dough and took a hearty bite, offering to her the plate on which they were served on.

Elizabeth had taken it, given him the hint of a smile and taken a bite, too, though still very small and careful.

In the course of the afternoon, he had tried to warm the little girl up to him a little but then mortally offended her by openly misjudging her age.

“I am not five”, she almost spat, head held high and indignation glittering in her hazel eyes as if it was an offence akin to treason to be five years old, “I am _seven_ , Admiral.”

“She is just small for her age”, Margaret intervened and protectively put an arm around her niece’s shoulders, “she might grow eventually.”

Elizabeth looked as if she had heard the same tale once too often in her young life.

“I might be small”, she then inserted herself actively into the conversation for the first time without being bidden to speak or waiting for her turn to be addressed, “but I am no fool. The mind makes the person, not the height.”

At that, she'd straightened her back again, attempting to gain even the littlest fraction of an inch more.

“You are quite right, Miss Elizabeth, I must apologise. And what particular interests do you enjoy then? Reading? Are you a good student?”

The proud smile curling the lips of her aunt told him everything she needed to know.

“The child speaks French and German, learns her history and pieces of Latin with zeal and draws remarkably well. She receives instructions in mathematics and domestic arts and is a quite accomplished rider for her age.”

“I wish I had been such a good student when younger- instead, I entered the Navy, where I have little time for poetry and the like- alas.”

“Have you not been good at school?”, Elizabeth wanted to know, now suddenly so very curious she forgot her reticence and looked at him with her pointed chin jutting out more as she listened attentively.

“Well enough for my father not to be displeased, tho’ with three elder brothers, there was nothing I could achieve they had not done before me. I entered the Navy at nineteen, where I studied hard for my lieutenant’s examination, for I always wanted to be a great sailor.”

“And now you are”, the child had concluded.

“How kind of you to say such a thing, Miss Gwillim.”

“Say, is your house big?”

Taken aback by the sudden change of topic he had answered something akin to “yes, sufficiently so I believe” and the seven-year-old across the table had nodded gravely.

“For I should like a room of my own when Aunt and I come to live with you, and my governess must come, too, and my pony.”

Upon hearing her little niece, now that she had warmed to him revealing her true queenly nature, speak thusly, Margaret’s face had taken the colour of beetroot and she was evidently not sure what to do next, whether to reprimand the child for her impudence or utter an apology to him first.

In favour of not making a scene of it, she half-scolded “I told you, it is the good Admiral’s choice to say if he would like that, we cannot invade there like barbarians.”

A moment of awkward silence threatened to ensue which he had then felt prompted to counter: “Miss Spinckes, you asked me to pose a certain question to you only after what you wished to reveal to me today and now that you have, I will do as bidden: Will you marry me, Margaret?”

Genuflecting before her, she had taken his hand in acceptance and looked quite happy.

“You and your niece shall meet no resistance at my door, which I shall open to you with gladness and yield to these particular invadors at once.”

“But Elizabeth”, Margaret asked again in disbelief and devoid of the playful tone he had chosen, “you would take her in, a stranger’s child-“

“She is your niece, and you’re no stranger to me. I have no children of my own-“

“Exactly. Men do not usually favour stranger’s children living in their home as their own”, his then-fiancée, now wife, had concluded.

“I wish I had, but my first marriage was not blessed with issue. I do take considerable interest in some of my nephews who are young still and write to them often, for they are in Ireland with their mother, and have a godson, too. When he was your age”, he nodded to Elizabeth, “his father, a close friend, died, and I took it upon me to be the father the boy had lost, as I had pledged to my old friend John I would when he made me his son’s godfather. The Fort would be quite lively with him, his mother and little brother visiting, but it has grown quiet in recent years. Katherine’s health is failing, young Percy died three years ago and John, well, he is grown now, seventeen, and speaking of leaving Oxford for the Army.”

Wistfulness had swept over him like a breaker when he recalls John Graves Simcoe’s baptismal service, holding the little boy with a shock of remarkably curly hair in his arms, who had since grown long and lanky with the awkward disproportionateness of teenage physique and dreamt of making his mark on the world.

The boy he then thought back to was no infant, no boy anymore; he had become an officer, indeed left Oxford and made his name, though often feared by his fellow lobsters and foes alike. To think that the last babe he had held before this moment of holding the yet nameless little girl had been him, who was now thirty-one, turning two-and-thirty in a month, was simply incomprehensible- how time had flown.

“Her name is Eliza, after her wonderful Mama”, his godson says and glances lovingly at the very tiny person dressed in an adorable lace-trimmed bonnet.

“Now you have a grandchild”, he goes on, “I think you must be quite pleased.”

“Grand-niece”, he corrects the younger man, but is cut off.

“No. You were like a father to both me and my wife when young, so my daughter, tho’ no blood relation of yours, shall know you as such. If she chooses to address you as her uncle one day, she shall, but the great fondness I am sure a child of mine will learn to harbour in her heart for you will be defined by the same filial piety and profoundness as my own.”

Aware he is sniffing but unable and unwilling to hide it, he is prompted to reply: “I still think it wonderful History fell into place like this. That Fate united the two young persons I am fondest of against all odds-“

“Odds?”, John echoes. “You mean your dear wife. My _aunt_ of now a year.”

It is evident from his tone he is displeased with even so much as thinking of Margaret as such.

“She is a person who follows her own convictions, and you are both united in your love for Elizabeth, and I am certain for little Eliza here also. Bury the hatchet, or in your case, bayonet, before someone is hurt. Your wife will not approve of blood all over her carpets.”

Chuckling in his uniquely disconcerting tone that rather convinces him John is thinking of the exact opposite thing he has counselled him to do, as he had done in his boyhood only too frequently, disregarding the wise council of his elders to do the most unwise, stupid thing instead just to see what effect it would have, John pretends to agree and motions them to retire to the drawing room to sit and speak in peace.

Eliza sleeps in his arms now, resting on his fat belly. For once, being old, slow and rather inclined to indulging in the delicacies Cook prepares every day too much, pays off.

They talk a while, drinks are brought in and John speaks of building a new house on the property they have bought with Elizabeth’s inheritance, a grand structure with space enough for more children.

“You shall not be able to save yourself from little ones”, he smirks, probably imagining a scenario of him, old and slow, being besieged by a host of small, read-headed and very spirited children.

“Trust me, I was the fourth of five and my brother John had thirteen- it can take its toll on a man having _so_ many.”

“Why not?”, John counters, “if Eliza is not against it, I should be pleased to have as many children as we shall be granted to have.”

John, the eldest of two (surviving) sons, a natural leader who had been already quite pompous, commanding and naughty even before he could write his own name, his dear mother’s darling, does not know the tyranny of older siblings, does not know the disappointment of doing something well, but as the fourth after three others, of bearing the brunt of an elder brother’s joke on grounds of being a “baby” and the youngest (for their sister they would not include in their raucous, boyish games). Of course it had not been all bad; as often as siblings fought, they would make amends for their petty misdeeds again and at least Olivia, the youngest and only girl, had understood him and allowed him to sit with her and her dolls, whom he would in return allow to undertake voyages on his toy ship across the wide, open sea of the carpet and act the part of a gentleman to complete her circle of ladies, making up stories for and with them.

They had all grown up, grown out of their childish ways and grown closer as age had reduced the once inconceivably large gap of two years to almost nothing, but at times, he thinks back at his poor mother and the poor nurse in charge of the gaggle of children at home and wonders about the purgatory they must have gone through at times.

Now Thomas and John were dead, and James, Olivia and he quite old, watching as the new generation takes over the rudder from them, taking command as the old ones stepped down leaving the wheel to new captains and commanders.

He hands the adorable Eliza back to her father, who calls for the nurse to send the infant upstairs for Elizabeth to present her to Margaret. He shall go upstairs later, too, and congratulate the new mother and most likely marvel at the fact that she has grown up so quickly, hoping he will observe Eliza grow in the same way he had first John and ten years later Elizabeth for another few years.

Their union was still a miracle to him, just as much as little Eliza with her tiny features and blue eyes. Who would have thought the little Miss Elizabeth he had come to know would twelve years later fall in love with John, who had then been broken and much fatigued by the effects his injuries sustained during the American Campaign had had on him?

Years ago, he had attempted to introduce Elizabeth to one of his nephews but his meddling had gone spectacularly wrong. They did not get on at all and fought, not like he and Margaret with the tenderness they know they have in their hearts for the other always present, but viciously. Somehow, his niece, who contrary to Margaret’s hopes had never grown much and was no more than 4”9’ tall, had managed to frighten a boy four years her senior and an aspiring naval officer to boot so profoundly he was afeard to be in the same room as she.

Who would have thought it would be John, unusually tall, quite frightening in his appearance and not exactly of the best reputation who would catch her eye?

Momentarily forgot is his anger at the snubs he has endured at the hands of the admiralty, forgot his disastrous spell in America, as the Colonies are now called, forgot everything else, even the humiliation of the brawl he had been in in Boston a number of years past when suddenly, he had tried to open a swollen eye as he came to with the rough cobblestones of the street for a pillow and finding his sword broken by his side. The only one who had ever found it amusing was John, who had told him it was quite a tale to have taken on an unarmed civilian and still lost. Certainly, his godson would have made minced pie of the man without even his bayonet and his arms tied behind his back and served him to his guests on Christmas. Margaret had raged when she had seen him upon returning to their abode, his wig a mess, blood from his nose decorating the front of his waistcoat in lobster-red, nursing a black eye and bemoaning the loss of his sword, but at the same time cleaned his face and chided him softly, revealing she was only afraid for him, would never want him to come to any harm.

He is a seaman, not a fist-fighting champion and a man of his family, the little one he and Margaret have with the aid of Chance and Love created. Life is good. There is no time to nurse the wounds of yesteryears, to keep fighting a forlorn battle against a government that no longer is; Falmouth in Massachusetts, which a man sailing under his orders burnt down entirely, and which he had practically authorised and stood the trial of public opinion for, is long past and with it, its ashes that have blackened his name in the eyes of some, forgot the humiliating verses made about him

_Next Graves, who wields the trident of the brine,_

_The tall arch-captain of the embattled line_

_All gloomy sate —mumbling of flame and fire,_

_Balls, cannon, ships, and all their damn'd attire;_

_Well pleas'd to live in never ending hum,_

_But empty as the interior of his drum._

Forgot everything unpleasant. Perhaps it is as they say; the sun of his age is setting as the stars of John and Elizabeth ascend, by which new ships shall navigate, not only the Atlantic, but all the world over and they shall shape it to their designs and according to their convictions while the very old and the very young shall watch on, sitting together in the garden of Hembury Fort House, where he and Margaret shall tell little Eliza and her at the moment still prospective siblings stories of their parents, of John’s naughty schoolboy-days and Elizabeth’s adventures with her best friend Mary Anne Burges in Devon and London and they shall laugh happily together and for some moments at least, the World Turned Upside Down shall be whole again.

**Author's Note:**

> Elizabeth genuinely excluded Margaret from the birth of her firstborn. Margaret had witnessed Elizabeth's birth and seen her sister die in it, an event she could never truly come to terms with and from which she had tried to protect Elizabeth by trying to convince her of never marrying at all- which obviously failed.  
> When Elizabeth went into labour, she had chosen one of her two paternal aunts to be by her side, her namesake Elizabeth Gwillim. Maybe she didn't want Margaret with her given the trouble and tensions in the family, especially Margaret's continued dislike of her nephew-in-law or because she wanted to spare Margaret a déjà-vu, but that's just guessing.  
> All went well and little Eliza Simcoe was born on 28 January 1784. I don't know the exact hour of her birth, so it being late at night is artistic license. 
> 
> "Sam": In his correspondence, Samuel Graves sometimes used "Sam Graves" when writing to close friends and family members, such as the nephews under his command, making it plausible others called him Sam face to face, too.
> 
> Ireland: Samuel Graves was born into an Anglo-Irish family. As this story is pre-Governent of Ireland Act (came into effect in 1921), the island has not been divided into two different political entities yet and thus all the term "Ireland" and georgraphical descriptions like "north" or "south" mean is purely geographical, carrying no (modern) political implications related to Nothern Ireland and an Poblacht na hÉireann.
> 
> ...Because there too many Eliza(beths) for it not to be confusing, here is a list:  
> Elizabeth Graves née Sedgwick: d. 1767, Admiral Graves' first wife.  
> Elizabeth Gwillim née Spinckes: 1723-1762, mother of Elizabeth Posthuma Simcoe, sister of Margaret Graves.  
> Elizabeth Gwillim: paternal aunt of Elizabeth Posthuma.  
> Elizabeth Posthuma Simcoe née Gwillim: 1767-1850, daughter of the latter, wife of John Graves and mother of Eliza Simcoe.  
> Eliza Simcoe: 1784-1865, daughter of the above.
> 
> "Miss in Her Teens" (1747), play by David Garrick centred around Miss Betty and her flock of suitors.
> 
> We don't know how Samuel and Elizabeth met for the first time, but they enjoyed a close relationship. Perhaps another testament to their closeness is that the person who designed his memorial in Buckerell Parish Church was Elizabeth's best friend, who was a frequent visitor at Hembury Fort House in her teens. It's plausible he started to dote on both girls, the children he never had.
> 
> Drawing from the ward's funds was at times practiced when the carers were not affluent enough to pay for everything, though nothing is recorded of Elizabeth's fortune being used for her upkeep when a child and this is more of a theoretical assumption of Samuel's.
> 
> If I counted correctly, Samuel had, at the time of being Commander of the North American Station, five (!) of his nephews working under him. Especially Thomas and Richard Graves were close to him, with the latter inheriting Hembury Fort House after Samuel's death. Being on the topic, what I say later in the chapter about Samuel's childhood is in part imaginary, but based on history. He was the youngest of four brothers and had a sister called Olivia, but there sadly is not much information on her so I decided to make her the youngest. His older brother John (1711-1776) was the reverend of Castledawson in modern-day Northern Ireland and indeed had thirteen children, which makes working the Graves family tree out a nightmare. On top of that, geneations of Graves only knew the Christian names John, Samuel, Thomas and Richard.  
> Poor Samuel for example must have known TWO John Graves' and TWO John Samuel Graves' who were joined, to perfect the confusion, by a John Simcoe and a John Graves Simcoe. And even better, if you check out some family portraits, most Graves' had dark eyes and the same nose AND were in naval service, so it must have been a guessing game who that gentleman in the uniform over there is. 
> 
> The excerpt from the poem "The Midnight Consultations: Or, a Trip to Boston" by Philip Morin Freneau (1752-1832) from a collection called "Poetry Relating to the American Revolution" contains even more such verses on British officers of the day. The volume I have found this in is also in itself very interesting, among other things, there are also poems about James Rivington, Arnold and many more.
> 
> If you want to know more about Samuel's time at sea and the reason why he has retired in all but name, allow me to refer you to the extensive notes on the latest chapter of "The Colonel's Portrait". Margaret accompanied him (Elizabeth stayed behind with other relatives) and I didn't even make that fistfight up- he was 62 at the time and his opponent, the Crown customs collector, 10 years his junior. In the end, the result was what he admits to in the story- the unarmed civilian broke his sword over the knee and gave him a black eye.


End file.
